


Getting Lucky

by embep



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embep/pseuds/embep
Summary: A Pokemon Moon Nuzlocke. Please use caution if you're sensitive to abuse of any kind.Students and parents alike can’t help but watch as he walks past. He’s top of his class, a fantastic battler, and is a great sport on the rare occasion that he does lose. He’s got incredible fashion sense, a good sense of humor, could practically blind people with his smile… Winter goes over them like a checklist in his head, nodding at his peers as he passes. Some are polite, others aren’t, but all of them notice him, and that’s what’s important.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very lucky to have meme-loving friends, so fanart can be found [here.](https://imgur.com/a/6V3mg) (may contain minor spoilers)

He was his mother’s son, and so he would give his love.

Not a single thing went unappreciated, from the light fixtures overhead to the white tiles under his feet. He greeted every person, every pokemon, every tree and ant and blade of grass and stream of water. Everything. He loved it all. Yungoos flocked around his feet, begging for snacks with their tilted heads and twitching noses, and he picked one up as a matter of course. “I love you,” he told it, laughing as it wriggled in his hands and then climbed up his arm to balance on his shoulder. He knelt down to the others, patting one on the head, and he spoke to them all when he said, “I love you, too.”

By this point, the one on his shoulder had figured out he was empty-handed, so it kicked off his back to disappear down the hall. The rest followed, streaming past him in a herd, and he turned to watch them go before moving on to the scabby-kneed boy.

Sometimes he’d be leaning against a tree, or sometimes against a wall. Sometimes he’d be sitting in a corner, or sometimes he’d be curled up underneath the big old koa. This time, he was kicking his legs idly from atop one of the planters, so he climbed up and crawled over to wrap his arms around him. “And I love you, too,” he said, pulling him close and holding the boy’s head so that it rested against his shoulder, just like his mother would always do.

The boy’s fingers curled into his vest, shoulders trembling, but he smiled when they pulled apart, his eyes pale and watery like melting ice.

Gladion wondered if that was why he was called Winter.


	2. Chapter 2

It feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders.

The sun is shining, the birds singing, and the rich smell of flowers and grass fills the air. It’s hot, but that’s Alola for you. Even so, it feels less humid than it did yesterday, as if a fog’s lifted off the island. Wintersong is just leaving his house, but he lingers in the doorway, glancing back into the gloom of his living room. “Wish me luck,” he says to no one. It’s something of an inside joke, and he laughs under his breath as he shuts the door behind him, not bothering to lock it.

Today is his last day of school—the day of his reincarnation.

There’s a skip in his step as he teases his headphones out of the hellnest that they’ve gotten themselves into in his pocket. A glance at their configuration tell him it’ll take until he’s halfway to school before he can put them in, but he’s going to be battling today and he can’t go without his power playlist. In the meantime, he grooves to the sound of the unpaved, gravel-lined road crunching under his sneakers, and when he reaches the end of the empty driveway he cups a hand around his mouth.

“Silva?”

The bushes shudder, bright green leaves and sunny gardenia stars parting to make way for royal, blue-silver fur. Silva arches her back and shakes her head to rid it of the spider webs. When that doesn’t work, she paws at her face, giving him the most pathetic mew she can muster.

“Yes, ma’am.” He pauses what he’s doing to fetch the handkerchief from his pocket. As he wipes her down, he notes she could use a good combing, but they don’t have the time for that so he just does his best to clean off any bits of web and dirt he can find. She purrs her appreciation as Winter folds the silky piece of fabric back up, his eyes glazing over as they find the _IE_ branded in the corner.

“You’re such a princess,” he murmurs, and she narrows her eyes as if insulted. But then her mouth curls upward in a mischievous grin, and Winter barely has time to protect his white capris as she swipes at them. He blocks her paw with his hand and shoots her a look that’s half-apology and half-warning.

“Okay, yeah, I get it. Takes one to know one.” She doesn’t quite look satisfied, so he continues. “Please, I’m having my picture taken today. I don’t want to get my clothes dirty.”

It takes a second, but thankfully she decides she’s made her point, and she bobs her tail with a satisfied huff.

“Thanks.” Winter gives her a quick scratch behind her ear, then moves under her chin as she lifts her head. “By the way, I’m going to be using Annie in the competition today. And before you start, I have a feeling I’ll be going up against Joseph today, and you know what that means.”

Her fur bristles and her ears shoot back.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. If you don’t mind smelling like grimer for the next few days, then I’d be glad to—”

He’s interrupted by the red flash of her disappearing back into the pokeball at his waist. Winter laughs through his nose and gives her Pokeball a pat as he stands and continues on his way. She can’t feel it, but it’s the thought that counts.

As predicted, he’s just stepping off of the gravel and onto the pavement when he finally pops his headphones into his ears. He keeps a wide berth between himself and the red doors of the Pokemon Center, but he’s already tripped twice this morning and had to pick a roach out of his cereal and maybe he’s a bit overconfident. He doesn’t keep his eyes on the sky like he should, and he only has enough time when he hears the wingull calling out from above to move his head out of the way. The glob of liquid misfortune splats down on his shoulder instead, and his smile wanes maybe five degrees, but it’s hardly his first shitting.

He continues on to school without missing a beat, and he’s practically strutting to the music by the time he passes the stonewall gate and turns into the parking lot. _Hau'oli Private Tapu High School, Tapu Koko est. 1 A.E_. Usually, the parking lot is only around a third full, but everyone’s parents have come today to watch the competition, so now it’s full to the brim with flawless, freshly-waxed cars. It looks more like a high-end dealership than a school. And, wouldn’t you know it, there isn’t a single speck of white on any of them, as if every damned bird on the island saves themselves just for him.

Well, whatever.

It’s his last day, and by now he’s become good at keeping up appearances. He walks around to the side of the building and slips in through the back door, closest to the bathroom. His backpack’s off and there’s a fresh shirt in his hand by the time he locks the stall behind him, his hand reaching for the toilet paper like a well-oiled machine. He dabs the wet spot until he’s sure it won’t make a bigger mess, then carefully lifts the shirt over his head and folds it neatly before stuffing it in the ziplock bag he keeps with him in preparation for this very occasion. He flushes the toilet, pulls his spare polo out of his bag and over his head, and pops his earphones back in. Couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds.

After he washes his hands and before he leaves the bathroom, he gives himself a once-over in the mirror. His hair needs to be smoothed down, but otherwise he’s impeccable. He’s always prided himself on his flawless skin, and his bangs hang just how he likes them, swooped platinum and perfect to the side. His polo’s open past the first button, and there’s nothing hiding on the back of his capris, either. He’s beautiful, a work of art, and he exits the bathroom as if the hallway is his personal catwalk.

Students and parents alike can’t help but watch as he walks past. He’s top of his class, a fantastic battler, and is a great sport on the rare occasion that he does lose. He’s got incredible fashion sense, a good sense of humor, could practically blind people with his smile… Winter goes over them like a checklist in his head, nodding at his peers as he passes. Some are polite, others aren’t, but all of them notice him, and that’s what’s important.

This school has been his kingdom for the past year. He won’t deny that part of him is sad to see it go.

“Wintersong!”

He swears he can hear a record scratch somewhere. Winter has to bite back a grimace at the sound of his name, and he spins around on his heel to see Emily, everyone’s favorite homeroom teacher. It’s only her third year teaching, but she’s passionate and it shows. She’s young and friendly, pretty without being distracting, and her handwriting’s a bit hard to read but other than that he’s never heard a single complaint about her. She approaches with her patented walk-hop-skip, black bob cut bouncing with every step.

Winter takes his headphones out. “Something the matter?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, just saw you and wanted to say hi. You know, make sure everything’s alright.” She bites the corner of her mouth. “Your parents couldn’t make it?”

“They’re a bit tied up at the moment,” he says, and he smiles all the brighter to make up for the soft frown forming at her mouth. “They told me to send their regards, though. There’s a _small_ chance that they’ll be able to make it to the last battle, so if we could save them a seat in the front I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

Her eyebrows are still raised in the precipice of a question they both know she’s too considerate to ask, but as usual she just drops it and follows his lead. “Just the last battle, huh? They’ll be pretty disappointed if you lose, then.”

“Well, given the competition...” He lets the implication hang, not caring how many people are listening in.

Emily rolls her eyes. “A little modesty would go a long way. Just do your best today, and… try not to antagonize anyone, okay?”

“No promises,” Winter says, and as he flashes his teeth even _he’s_ amazed he still has a full set of them.

Before Emily can retort, someone calls her from down the hall, so she just punches his shoulder playfully. It catches a fresh bruise, but he manages not to flinch. “See you in class,” she sings in parting, then she’s walk-skip-hopping off on her way.

 

The classroom is all hushed whispers and unabashed stares when Winter enters, the atmosphere thick with unvoiced expectations. Winter drinks it all in. He can feel their gazes wash against his skin, the laser-pointed glares mixed with the tickles of apathy and rare giddy adoration. Only the students who have graduated with a 3.5 or higher GPA and at least two pokemon to their name are present, or roughly half the class. It’s a shockingly high number—unprecedented, Winter’s sure. Part of it probably has to do with Emily’s ability to motivate her students, but statistically speaking classes tend to do much better when Winter is a part of them, especially on multiple choice tests. And the school had a lot of multiple choice tests.

His seat is front row and second from the left. Since he’s in class now, he stashes his iPod away, but his fingers still drum on the wood of his desk to the beat playing in his head. Today is a Pink sort of day.

Someone sits down to his right, and Winter graces him with a turn of his head. It’s Joseph, who has managed to snag a win from him a total of three times in the past year, which makes him the biggest competition. Winter smiles pleasantly, but Joseph just looks down his million-dollar nose at him, expression approaching contempt as Winter responds to the pressure with a dismissive shrug. Cute boy, cute butt, but his attitude’s plummeted ever since his sister died last year.

Winter doesn’t have to wait long before Emily takes her spot in the front of the room, telling student to settle down and find their seats—just because it’s the last day of class doesn’t mean they can afford to dilly-dally, and _yes_ that means you, Joey.

The class chuckles softly and Winter does, too.

She has Terrance pass out the schedule for the day. They’ll be using Field 1 and 2 to battle, while the other classes get 3 and 4. The first battles are scheduled to start at 7:10, in 8 minutes, so Emily talks quickly. It’s mostly just a reminder of what they already know—they’re only to use one pokemon, no items, twenty minute time limit for battles. Normally, all three classes would compete to the semi-finals to decide the two to be offered up to the Tapus, but given the large number of participants this year the Kahuna had decided that they would select one from Winter’s class and one from the other two.

She finishes with a short but touching declaration about how rewarding it has been watching their growth over the last year. No matter who wins today, they should all be proud of themselves, and so on. The thickness of her voice at the end really sells it, but in the end there can only be one winner, and everyone knows it’s going to be him.

It isn’t that his classmates are bad at battling necessary, but Winter’s better. He’s worked harder and longer.

And he needs it more.

 

Winter’s first battle is against Joey, and it’s just as much a wash as Winter suspected it would be. Joey does surprisingly well academically, but he’s not one for competition when the lives of his pokemon are on the table. He sends out a metapod for cheap laughs, and that it lasts even a minute against Annie is impressive. When the battle’s over, they don’t watch the others, choosing instead to wait inside the school building, where they have the benefits of air conditioning and less people. Annie trots at his heels, her fluffy little tail wagging behind her, and when he sits down in the lounge she grinds her collar into his exposed ankles until he leans down to give her pats.

“Good job out there,” he says, and it’s all the praise he feels safe giving her. She gives a happy bark all the same, pressing her head up into his palm.

He doesn’t like saying a lot between battles. It’s too easy to jinx things, and he’s trained his pokemon so that they should for the most part be able to act for themselves, without him having to give direction. So he just treats her to affection until it’s nearly time for their next battle, and then he tells her, “You’ll be fighting Hiromi’s pikipek next. After that is Mia’s bonsly, and then last is Joseph’s grimer.”

She growls playfully and snaps her jaws, and he swears his heart melts. His little bruiser.

When they go out onto the field again, Hiromi and Pekipoo are waiting for them. As predicted. Winter’s carefully calculated the results of the competition, taking into account both the skills of his peers and which opponents would be the least convenient for him personally. Hiromi is probably the third-best battler in their class, if he’s first and Joseph is second. She’s a good trainer, and she can make a solid strategy, she just lacks self confidence. The safest way to win a battle against her is to shake her up, and as such when Pekipoo starts making a racket with echoed voice, Annie sits back on her flanks and starts howling, too.

By the end of the battle, Annie’s sporting a small cut on her shoulder, and Hiromi’s fuming over Pekipoo’s very likely broken wing. Her parents are lawyers, so she knows there’s nothing she can do about it considering it’s an officially sanctioned battle and she’s already signed the waiver. Annie just sticks out her chest and barks victoriously.

The third battle is the toughest of the day—but only literally so. Mia is too reliant on her good typing to win her battles for her, and as such she’s incapable of battle plans more complicated than tackle spam. All Annie has to do is dodge then circle around to bite it in the back. Before the hairline fractures gradually making their way down the bonsly’s back can split it into pieces, Emily calls the match in Winter’s favor. Mia doesn’t look disappointed when they shake hands after, just bored.

Between the third and fourth rounds, the trainers are given nearly an hour to prepare, so Winter decides to let Annie unwind with a couple berries and a romp through the bushes. There are a lot of wild yungoose in the area, and she loves to dive in and scatter all the pups hiding in them. Once, she did the same thing to a flock of wingull resting on the beach, but one of them doused her with water and she’s never tried it since.

Joseph’s already taken his place on the battlefield when they get back. Winter swaggers into the trainer box on his end of the field and gives his opponent a brilliant, sportsmanlike smile. “Whatever happens, we’ll still be friends, right?”

Joseph doesn’t respond with words, but grits his teeth and his expression seems to say, _‘I’d tell you to fuck yourself if we didn’t have an audience.’_

Someday, Winter swears he’ll give those little pink lips of his a big smooch, just to see what color Joseph’s face turns. In the meantime, he settles for a wink, which causes the boy to flinch away. Cute.

Joseph’s first move is always poison gas. Winter doesn’t blame him—it’s common sense to inflict status as early in the battle as possible. It’s just so very predictable. Annie takes a deep breath of fresh air while she can, then dives into the purple cloud of gas spreading across the field. He can’t see what’s happening inside, but when she emerges she has green sludge and oil smeared down her side, so he imagines that she’s managed at least one full-body tackle.

She pants for a second at the corner of the arena, but she doesn’t have a lot of time before the cloud spreads further and swallows both her and Winter up. It’s not legal to attack a trainer technically, but there’s a lot of leeway for gray area, and indirect attacks are considered a legitimate strategy once you go pro. If he takes a step back, the match will be forfeit. Winter tries to wave the gas away from his face, but he ends up choking on it instead, eyes watering.

There’s a sloshing sound, and Winter knows that the grimer has begun attacking in full now. Annie doesn’t bark, she just growls low in her throat, and Winter _thinks_ he knows what’s probably happening, so he lets his focus wander. The wind has picked up and started blowing more of the poison in his direction, but he can still see the bleachers past it. Unlike the trainer box, the bleachers are protected by a pair of chansey—one of which works at the school, the other borrowed from the nearby pokemon center. A veil of safeguard shimmers as the sunlight passes through it, and frankly Winter finds it unfair that they don’t supply one for him, too.

Joseph’s girlfriend, Isabella, is in the stands. Her hands grip the bottom of the bench and she leans her entire body forward, lips pulled over her teeth in concentration as she searches for traces of the pokemon in the fog.

He wonders if her heart will sink. She’ll probably cry like it’s the end of her world and not just her passport into the real one. Back when they were freshmen, right in the beginning of the year, Joseph had announced it loud and clear to the whole class—“I’m going to be a captain someday,” he’d said. “It’s been my dream ever since I was a kid, that’s why I chose to go here.”—as if wanting something for long enough made him entitled to it.

Childhood dreams are nothing but, and Winter hopes they’re morning people.

The poison is clearing and Winter doesn’t want to look back, but Emily’s watching and she’s talked to him about spacing out in the middle of battles more than once. He hasn’t heard any barks for a while, so the situation is pretty much how he expects. It’s objectively the worst position for her to be in, her shoulder caught in the grimer’s mouth and her snout stuck deep in its gunk from what must have been a bite of her own. It will have been a while since she’s been able to breathe, which when combined with the poison damage make the battle a race against time.

Winter feels himself begin to sweat, but it might be the sun or the purple cloud wafting over him. He glances over to Joseph, whose mouth is spread thin into a smile. There’s a look on his face like he can’t believe it, and he licks his lips as if he can taste the victory on them. This is the exact situation that’s resulted in his previous victories.

Maybe he feels Winter’s gaze on him, because he looks up, smile spreading across his face as if to say, _‘Ha! I showed you!’_

Winter thinks that his lips are too thin and that frowning suits him better. That’s why he can’t bring himself to feel too guilty when Joseph looks back to the battle and his face falls.

“Wait, grimer, stop!” he says, but it’s too late.

The grimer releases Annie’s shoulder, looking up to Joseph in goppy confusion, and it gives Annie enough time to pull away for a quick breath. It moans as she bites back down, digging in deeper the more it tries to seep away from her, but it’s already on the edge of the arena and Annie doesn’t let up. Her claws dig into the dirt and her body strains with the effort, because she knows that just a little more and—

“Grimer is out of bounds, Joseph is disqualified. Class C’s winner is Wintersong Brooks!”

Annie’s head’s stuck in so far that she can’t hear, so she doesn’t realize she’s won until Joseph calls back his grimer and she falls forward into the dust. She’s bewildered for a moment, looking half-grimer herself with half her body covered in green slime, but when she finally puts two and two together she leaps up in victory and comes bounding over to Winter. Before she can rub herself all over him, Winter takes out his pokeball to call her back. She deserves a long rest and an even longer bath.

It’s hard for him to be excited about the victory, because anyone capable of basic addition could see he was the clear winner walking into the tournament. It’s vindicating, though. The applause he receives is rather lukewarm, flavored by a passionate boo from the stands—that would be Isabella—but they’re all watching him, and _that’s_ what’s important.

Winter responds with a deep bow and a flourish, then walks to the center of the field to shake his opponent’s hand.

“You’ll get’em next time, slugger,” he says.

Joseph nearly snarls, and that really is a good look on him. “The only reason you won is because you had Ilima backing you, you _fag_.”

Winter’s been smiling this whole time, but it widens at that. “Couldn’t have done it without the captain’s help.”

Joseph snorts, brings his head back, and Winter can’t step away fast enough to dodge the spit that lands on his shirt. The corners of his lips sink perhaps five degrees, but this is hardly his first spitting. He’s not going to let something like this ruin his sunny disposition. Emily doesn’t appear to have noticed, so Winter bridges the gap between them, pulling Joseph into a friendly hug before he can escape.

He makes sure to press their chests together, resting his cheek on the boy’s shoulder as he whispers, “I’ll send you a postcard when I’m captain.”

“Shove it up your ass.”

“Sounds fun. Careful, Ilima gets _wicked_ jealous, though.”

Evidently enough is enough, because Joseph pushes him away, nostrils flaring. He storms off and ignores Emily as she calls for him, heading straight for his father, and Winter doesn’t bother listening in on the argument between the two of them that follows. He just takes the handkerchief out of his pocket, eyes glazing as they sweep over the _IE_ branded in the corner, and uses it to scrub away the wet spot on his shirt.

He completely forgets about the dirt and spider webs he’d wiped off of Silva that morning, smearing them all over his white shirt just as Emily leads the photographer over.

Just his luck.


	3. Interlude

They met for the first time when Winter was four and Gladion had just celebrated his fifth birthday. The introduction had been awkward, facilitated both by Winter’s refusal to utter a word and Gladion’s immediate distaste for Winter’s mother. She’d had yellow teeth and funny colors in her hair that made her look grimy even in her crisp Aether whites, and her voice was rough and shot, making her sound like she was dehydrated—or had just been screaming. 

“Sorry about my boy,” she croaked as she knelt down to his level. “He’s not much of a talker. Said he’s real excited to meet you, though.”

By comparison, _his_ mother’s voice was gentle and comforting, like you could hear the way she smiled in everything she said, and Gladion sidled closer to her as she started talking. “I’m sure he’s just a little shy. We should give the boys some time to get to know each other.”

He wanted to push his face into her dress and smother out the rest of the world like he used to before he became the big brother, but when she smoothed a hand over his head he looked up at her instead.

“Winter’s come a long way to help your father with his research. I hope you two can be good friends.”

And he wasn’t fond of the idea, but he nodded anyway, because there was nothing in the world worse than disappointing his mother.


	4. Chapter 4

_May 26, 158_

_I don’t have a lot of space left in this journal. This will be my last entry until I get a new one._

_I’ve officially been selected as this year’s offering. Don’t think anyone’s too shocked about it. Apparently Hau won for A and B. We never really talked, but he’s the Kahuna’s grandson, so it’s hard not to know him. He’s like actually popular. Never heard a bad word about him, which might be why I never really bothered getting to know him. Seems like, if no one has anything bad to say about you, you’re either pretty boring or a really good liar. Guess I’ll find out._

_Ceremony starts at 7, but I have to be there at 5 so Emily’s gonna give me a ride to Iki. She offered when I told her my parents couldn’t make it. Probably has some ulterior motive, but it was nice of her. Beats walking._

_Out of space. Later._

 

 

Laundry has always been a bit of a hassle. He can’t remember the last time the water or electricity bill got paid, so Winter has to work outside in the sun to make sure he’s gotten all of the stains out, with only a bucket at his side and his Slowpoke at his feet. The shirt he’s washing today already has wingull shit all over it, so he doesn’t bother setting the tarp up over the driveway. He avoids making eye contact with the people that sporadically pass by, all dressed in baggy blacks and tight cut-offs as if in uniform. Some send him looks about half as wild as their hair colors, and he’ll respond with a sneer in kind, but for the most part they’ve learned not to interact with him and Winter rewards them by ignoring the way they stain his vista.

The fact that he has a place to sleep at all makes him better than most of them.

Most homes in the neighborhood have taped-over windows and doors that hang open at all times of the day, because they’re thoroughly communal and nothing worth stealing is worth the retribution of an addict in withdrawal. Walls are cracked and paint is chipped, shades of mauve and eggshell flaking like bad dandruff in dead lawns. Winter’s house has a rain gutter that sags past his bedroom window and rust stains that make the walls look diseased, but he knows how to use a lawnmower and cleans periodically, so it’s halfway-habitable by comparison.

One person, a girl who sometimes takes refuge in the halfway home down the street, congratulates him, and he manages to respond with a polite smile. Winter thinks that’ll be the end of it, but she sticks around, watching him wash for a moment before saying, “Guess you’re not gonna be around for a while.” The words come out slowly, as if this is the first time she’s thought them.

Winter just nods. “If I can help it.”

She does that annoying thing she always does, where she sticks her foot out and rests her hands on the small of her back, giving the person she’s talking to full view of her track marks. Today, Winter counts two, but it’s just a bit past noon so he expects she hasn’t been up for more than a few hours, tops.

“How long ya gonna stick around? Could throw ya a party.”

“I’m going to Iki in a few hours,” Winter tells her, and he half-tries not to sound condescending as he continues. “But don’t let that stop you.”

Her body is completely dry, from head to toe, so what’s meant to be a snort comes out a sniff.

For a while, neither of them says anything. Whiskers, curled in blob of pink at Winter’s feet, finally lifts his head to see what’s happening, but he seems to have forgotten to open his eyes. It’s only when Winter looks down to start scrubbing again that she speaks up.

“It’s all over the news, ya know. I mean, they’re mostly talkin’ about the Kahuna’s kid, but you’re on there, too.”

“Great. I hope they got a good picture of me.”

“Wasn’t bad. Kinda looked like ya had somethin’ on your shirt, though.”

Winter smiles all the sweeter.

There’s another pause and some awkward shuffling before the girl asks, “Ever battle him before?”

He scoffs. “Why, got money on me or something?”

“Not yet, but Robby and the boys were talkin’ about poolin’ together.” She shrugs. “Might get in on it. Figure the turnover’ll be great, what with all those rich folk puttin’ it on the other guy.”

“Smart.”

“So?”

“I’ll win.”

She nods to herself, because he’s told her what she wanted to hear, but hesitates all the same. “Ya sure?”

Winter finds himself raising an eyebrow. “Is that even a question?”

“Don’t be a shit, you know I don’t got money to waste.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else. If I _do_ lose, I won’t be able to set foot in the neighborhood without getting my ass kicked eight times over. And I’d prefer to avoid that, so I’ll win.”

She laughs like a half-empty salt shaker. “Got that right.”

Not that Winter ever plans on coming back, but he’d hate to jinx it.

“Well, good luck anyway. We’re all rootin’ for ya. Don’t get much of our kind doin’ the trials.”

Winter sucks in a breath, because he most certainly is _not_ , but he manages not to tell her to go fuck herself. He just looks back down at his laundry and starts scrubbing again, relaxes his shoulders to better sell that _he really doesn’t care._

“Right,” he says without looking up. “I’ll see you around then.” Or not.

And maybe he wasn’t quite as subtle as he should’ve been, because she only grunts in response, walking off with a slouch in her back and a swagger in her hips. Uneconomical.

No one talks to Winter for the rest of the day.

 

 

The weather forecast had predicted a thirty percent chance of rain, which is of course just high enough to ensure that he can feel the beginning of a tropical storm splashing against the back of his neck right as he’s finishing up. He’d had the foresight to keep his phone in the house, though, so he doesn’t worry too much when the sky breaks on top of him. Makeup runs down his face and mixes with the hair that’s plastered to his cheeks, but there’s no one around to impress. Winter blinks the water from his eyes and doesn’t go inside until he’s completely done.

He hangs the shirt in the gloom of the living room to dry. His pikipek is perched on the couch, and he doesn’t need to ask her to help for her to whip up a light breeze. “Thanks, Peep,” he says as he scratches the star-shaped patch at her chest. She opens her beak in something that might be a coo, but it’s too quiet to hear over the sound of rain pattering against the roof.

Something pink and blubbery passes through his periphery, and Winter turns back to the door. Occasionally, Whiskers will forget that he learned how to open the door a few months back. Today isn’t one of those days, as the trail of muddy water from the front door to the kitchen attests.

Winter laughs to himself. He rushes past the broken TV and leaps over the couch in a perfect ark—avoids the dark spot in the carpet and dashes down the hall to the closet with the door that can never stay shut. He grabs the first towel he can get his hands on and is about to make his equally majestic return when the towel catches on an exposed nail. It tugs his arm back in a way that he doesn’t expect, forcing him to bite back an unflattering groan as he lands flat on his ass.

But, on the bright side, he hasn’t twisted anything and he didn’t land in anything this time, so he dusts himself off and hurries back to his slowpoke.

He follows the trail and finds Whiskers trying to shove his fat face into a box of Cheerios. It won’t fit, so he’s chasing it across the kitchen floor, scattering Cheerios the whole way. Winter snatches it from him before he can make a bigger mess. “How many times do I have to tell you not to trail water through the house?”

It’s a losing battle and he knows it. Whiskers gives him that vacant, open-mouthed grin, like he doesn’t understand a thing in the world, and Winter isn’t falling for it. They both know he just likes being toweled down.

Winter rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

All the same, once he’s finished, he makes sure to wrap an arm around the lug and give him a gentle noogie for good measure. Slowpoke are notoriously bad at learning their lessons, and Winter doesn’t want to incentivize bad behavior. It takes Whiskers’ face a good fifteen seconds to fall, and he pulls against the arm around his neck, struggling to get his cheeks to fit through the opening. Winter relents and settles for hugging him around the middle.

Whiskers lets out a sigh and flops down on the ground, and Winter rides him all the way down, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment. The smell of slowpoke enters his nose, sweet and buttery and just a little sour—it’s always reminded him a bit of cherry pie. It’s especially strong when his eyes are closed and the roar of rain blocks out everything else in the world. He can’t hear the obnoxious couple next door or the sputtering stick shifts on the road. Even the muffled shouts and whimpers from his parents’ room disappear.

The scattered white noise sort of reminds him of applause. For a moment, Winter imagines it’s for him.

 

 

His clothes are dry, his makeup’s done, and there’s a meowth on his lap when he hears the crunch of gravel in his driveway. Winter expects to have to tell Annie to be quiet, because she always goes nuts whenever there’s company, but she’s been confined to her pokeball ever since the battle with the grimer. Silva still doesn’t make getting to the door easy, though. He hasn’t so much as shifted his weight but he still feels her claws digging into him. One of her eyes peeks open and it’s like a George R. R. Martin book, because all he reads is murder.

“I have to get the door,” he says, attempting to sound somewhat authoritarian, but she just responds with a low growl that he assumes is meowth for _five more minutes._

“You can either get up now or I’ll put you in your Pokeball. I’ll let you decide.”

Winter feels her tail slap against his thigh, but she doesn’t straight-out maul him, so he unclips her ball from his belt and lets her rest in it. He stretches when he stands, then plucks his designer Falabella backpack from the couch and slips his arms through it. Peep is already in her ball, but he recalls Whiskers on his way to the door, swinging it open just as Emily’s lifting her fist to knock.

She startles, partially from his timing, but also probably in part from the racket that’s started back up again in his parents’ room. The words are unintelligible, but it’s hard to mistake the crying. Winter wishes the rain would come back.

“Hey there,” she says, but she looks past him, leaning in a bit to look down the hall towards the source of the noise.

Winter takes a step forward and closes the door behind him. “Sorry, mom and dad aren’t feeling too well today.” He smiles apologetically, but he can tell by the look on Emily’s face that isn’t going to cut it. “They said to say thanks for the ride, though. Also, to ask if you want compensation for gas?”

“No, of course not. Don’t worry about it…” She trails off, mouth hanging half-open, which means that if Winter doesn’t change the subject she’s probably going to start talking about something he’d prefer she didn’t.

“So, we going, or what?”

It takes a couple seconds, but she bites her lips together and Winter knows he’s won.

“Yeah,” she says. “I hear if you leave the Kahuna waiting for more than three minutes he has a habit of wandering off.”

He grins and it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Better hurry then.”

So Emily unlocks her car. It’s a bit of a show, since she has to first unlock her door, then get in, then lean all the way over and unlock the passenger-side door, which isn’t as easy as it sounds for someone of her height. But that’s what she gets for driving retro—or, that’s what he assumes anyway, because he can’t imagine any other reason someone teaching at Tapu High would drive such an old model. It’s got a nice paint job at least, bright red and freshly-waxed, and opening the door meets him with a pleasant floral aroma. He can’t even complain about the atrocious zebstrika-print cloth covering the seats, because now he doesn’t have to feel guilty too about getting meowth fur all over them.

The keys go into the ignition and Winter flips open the vanity mirror on instinct, comb appearing in his hand like magic. The engine purrs and makes the whole car vibrate with it, but when they don’t move he glances over at Emily, who just sends him an expectant look.

“Buckle up or we’re not going anywhere.”

Winter is able to stop fussing with his hair for just long enough to snap his seat belt into place, then he’s back staring at his reflection. They pull out of his driveway and Winter couldn’t be feeling less sentimental as his neighborhood passes by him for the last time. There are better ways he could be spending his time, like doing something about the way his bangs have suddenly decided to go rogue. He ignores the way Emily completely fails to hide her snort. She’s not the one who’s going to be on TV.

Alola’s at its most beautiful at this time of day, when the sun is sinking on the horizon and turning everything varying shades of burnt orange and cotton candy. He especially loves the way it looks _on him_ , how it tickles his hair this soft shade of red, a little too yellow to be pink—and, yeah, he definitely makes a better blond than a ginger, but it still looks pretty good. The red eyes, not so much, but his face rather likes the extra color. He could save a lot on blush.

He angles his chin up a bit more to get a better look, tries parting his bangs at the side instead of letting them swoop over his forehead, pretends not to hear Emily clear her throat, purses his lips a little bit…

“Wintersong.”

He visibly flinches and the gig is up. Winter looks over, blinking innocently. “Huh?”

He’s expecting her to rail on him for his endless cycle of self-admiration (and he’s got like twelve different lines straight from Devi Lovato’s mouth to contest whatever point she’s about to make), but instead of saying anything she just chews on the silence for a bit longer with a guilty look on her face.

When she chooses to speak again, the words leave her haltingly, as if she’s feeling her way forward. “I know I haven’t really… made myself as available to you as I should have.”

Winter does his best not to look as immensely uncomfortable as he feels. He furrows his brows and tilts his head a smidge—enough to say _I have no clue what you’re talking about_ without looking half-Neanderthal.

She pushes forward past it, doesn’t give him as much as a glance. Safe driving, but there goes his Oscar.

“I should have said something. About your home situation… and the bullying.”

“Is this about that time I flirted with Joseph in the bathroom? How was I supposed to know—”

Emily sends him a serious look and he sinks in his seat a bit. “You know I’m not talking about Joseph.”

And now it’s Winter’s turn to look away, because Emily knows him too well and he doesn’t remember when that became a thing. “It’s—um. It’s not really a big deal. I’m gay. And _poor._ If it were just one or the other, I probably could’ve made it, but.” _Stop. Back it up._ “I mean, I knew going into the school that it wasn’t exactly going to be an, uh. Open environment, I guess.” He shrugs. “It was never too bad, anyway. Mostly just a lot of silent treatment, and there’s not much you could do about that.” Helped that he always gave as good as he got, plus that he was better than the lot of them at basically anything that mattered.

Winter shrugs again, and the car is quiet save the droning of the engine. He makes the mistake of hoping that’ll be the end of it.

“I could’ve called child services when I noticed the bruises.”

Something tumorous freezes him over from the inside out, and he can feel the malignance and ugliness so he smiles ten times as beautiful to make up for it—because that’s what he is. He’s beautiful and serene and graceful and _perfect_ , and what the fuck does this bitch think she knows, anyway? “I told you, it’s fine. I mean, look at me. Obviously I didn’t need your help to get myself out of the situation.”

“If you aren’t successful in the trials—”

“I _will_ be.”

“You can’t know that.”

He bites his cheek for a second to calm himself down. “Then I’ll get a job, or I’ll move in with my boyfriend—or I’ll go to college, even. With my grades, scholarships shouldn’t be an issue.”

It’s not enough. The fact is, they both know she could’ve done more, and he can taste her guilt bitter in the air. It’s so tempting to say something nasty, because she’s so fragile and he knows that he _could_. But crying at the wheel isn’t exactly his definition of safe, and this isn’t a bridge he particularly wants to burn just yet, so he sucks in a breath and lets some of his pride out with it.

“Look, you really shouldn’t beat yourself up about it. You’re a great teacher. Being in your class was… like an escape for me. If you’d called someone, I’d have been put into the system, where they’d send me all around Melemele with different families if I was lucky, or dump me in some Po Town home if I wasn’t. And there goes my upward trajectory.” He swallows and stares out the windshield, wanting to look at anything but Emily. “I worked really hard to get to where I am. If you’d have called it in, all of that would’ve gone to waste.”

She doesn’t say anything when he pauses, so he continues. “Even if it makes you feel guilty, not doing anything was the best thing you could’ve done.”

Winter wishes he’d left Silva out so that he had something to distract him. Since he doesn’t, he just settles for picking at his fingernails. He keeps them clipped down to the nail beds, so there isn’t really any space for dirt, but his cuticles are ratchet. Hopefully he’ll have time for a manicure when he gets to Hau’oli.

“I still should have made myself more available to you,” she says after an extended silence, her voice heavy. Winter glances over against his better judgment, sees the glossiness of her eyes, and goes straight back to his nails.

This is why he hates ‘good’ people. They get hung up on what they ‘should’ do and never let things go until _they_ feel satisfied with themselves, irrespective of his or anyone else’s feelings. It’s shitty and self-serving, and somehow getting frustrated over it makes him the dick.

He refuses to say anything more. The silence hangs heavy in the air, but it’s still better than kissing her ass any longer. Eventually, Emily cracks and turns on the radio, flipping through the channels until she finds one that sticks. Winter hopes for something pop, but Emily seems to prefer classic rock. The DJ announces some song by the Rolling Stones and Winter has to hold back a groan. The car cannot go fast enough.

 

 

Emily doesn’t try to talk to him again until they’ve reached Iki Town and Winter’s practically got one foot out the door. Her voice is lighter by then and she’s clearly got a better hold on her emotions, but Winter’s still apprehensive when she calls out, “Wintersong.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to know that you can come to me for help during the trial. I don’t want you to ever have to go back to... _that_. So, if anything ever happens, I’m here. Not as a teacher, but as a friend.” She stops the car and puts it into park with a lurch, then looks over at him with a face like it’s the most important thing she’s ever done. “I’ll give you my number, so please call me.”

Winter gives her the soft smile he knows she wants to see. “Thanks, that means a lot,” he says, as if he’s the one being comforted by all of this. He puts her digits in his phone and flies out of the car before she can work up the nerve to feel guilty about anything else.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a little past seven when the makeup artist finishes giving him his second skin, which means that the sea has just finished swallowing the sun when he gets to Mahalo Trail. Hau has already come and gone, but Winter likes to think he’s fashionably late.

There’s a single line of orange on the horizon, and everything else is dyed the colors of the ocean, which when combined with the thickness of the humidity in the air gives the entire town an alien feel, like being underwater. His skin and hair are a nice periwinkle blue that almost matches the purple malo they put him in, and the scenery is composed of varying shades of teal and viridian where leaves meet grass meet navy-colored stone reliefs. 

Standing out amongst all of these is the entrance to Mahalo Trail, lined with burning torches, cameras, and a gaggle of eager spectators, most of whom are children and small pokemon. They hold empty coconut halves that they’ve painted in Tapu Koko motifs and clatter them together as they see him approach, the pokemon without opposable thumbs stomping their feet in the dirt and howling. 

Apparently it’s meant to be symbolic of the war march up to the Ruins of Conflict back at the turn of the era. It sounds like an army of hooves on pavement, overpowering and chaotic, but oddly rhythmic. 

It’s probably somewhat faithful, but Winter has to doubt that there were this many toddlers involved in the revolution.

Squeezing through groups of people makes his skin crawl on the best of days, but tonight it’s agonizing. There are people reaching out to touch him, calling out to him, jeering and brushing against him and it’s all very nice in the sense that it’s all _for him_ , but he swears he can feel his luck leaking out through his pores with every tiny interaction. 

It doesn’t help that, whether for or against him, all of the adults have some sort of stakes riding on him tonight. Emily’s a face in the crowd of them, her head barely crowning over the pre-teens as she struggles to get a good look at him. She clenches a paper stub in her hand unabashedly. It’s a bit of a faux pas to bet on your own student, but then again she’s never really been that interested in maintaining her image.

They lock eyes and she gives him a thumbs-up, mouthing something that Winter can’t hear. She points further down by the edge of the trail. 

He gets the message.

Ilima stands, staring straight at him and looking as if he’d walked straight out of a dream. He smiles gently at Winter, eyes half-lidded and skin appearing to be made of living gold under the flickering torchlight. He’s the platonic ideal of beauty, from the proportions of his face to the shape of his nails to the captain charm molten against his neck, to the way he claps his hands together as Winter approaches, slow and even like a metronome. The word impeccable doesn’t do him justice. 

It’s been more than five years since they met, and Winter still finds himself transfixed. He’s brilliant, like there’s a spotlight following him at all times, and the longer Winter stares the more he feels as if his heart might stop.

Even so, when Winter manages to break away he realizes that the camera’s aren’t focused on Ilima, they’re focused on _him_. 

It’s hot. It’s deafening. It’s honestly a little embarrassing, considering images of him wearing nothing but a backpack and an aggrandized loincloth are going to be published all over the country by the time he wakes up tomorrow—

But it’s all for him. Of all the beautiful people and all the beautiful things in the world, the whole country is focused on _him_ tonight, and that’s what’s important.

Winter pulls himself together. He lifts his head high and puts one foot in front of the other.

He’ll walk the beaten path like every step he takes is holy, because tonight, even if it’s just tonight, he is a god.

 

  
The noise and lights of Iki Town both cut off quickly as he ascends the mountain, leaving him walking blind in the darkness. A hand skims along the earthen wall at the side of Mahalo Trail to help guide him, but it doesn’t do much to stop him from stumbling over every other step. There is only one hard-set rule about the climb: participants must reach the Ruins of Conflict without outside assistance. While this doesn’t disclude the use of electronic devices or pokemon, the use of them is considered to be against the spirit of the challenge, which Winter personally finds dumb and arbitrary, since it means he can’t listen to his Power Playlist.

He hums Selena Gomez to himself in consolation, attempting to focus on the upcoming battle instead of how the malo rubs against his unmentionables or the state the bottom of his feet must be in. Whose idea was it to put the offerings in sandals on an unpaved road?

It’s hard to tell how long it takes to reach the top, since apparently looking at a clock is unsportsmanlike, but he estimates something like forty minutes when he sees the signal torches and the end of the trail. The salty-chalky taste of sweat and makeup has thoroughly seeped into his mouth by then, and he’s so bug-bitten that he’s certain he’s contracted malaria. But he managed not to fall on his face on the way up, so he considers it a victory.

Every step he’s taken has brought the sound of crashing water closer to him, and as he emerges from the cover of trees into the torchlight he’s met with the source: a gigantic waterfall, cascading down further than he can see through the dark and the mist that clouds the air and obscures his path. Spanning the ravine is a rickety rope-and-wood suspension bridge that looks like it was made before the war. The wood is green with rot, and spaced far enough that pre-weight-loss Kelly Clarkson could slip through if she wasn’t careful, while the rope is caked with grime and looks more threadbare than a pair of ripped jeans. 

Altogether, it’s a mess, and Winter finds his eyes trailing the sheer drop down into the void. He tastes something sour in the back of his throat, but there’s a camerawoman pinned to him and hell if he’s going to let the people watching at home him see his nerves.

The breeze picks up and the bridge creaks menacingly, but it’s not like Winter hadn’t known that this was coming, either. He gives the camera a smile like he does this shit every day and refuses to let his expression droop as he gets to work.

Under his pokeballs is a length of rope and a carabiner. In less than a minute, he’s pulled the rope through his legs and secured it to his malo, wrapping it up and over his shoulders for extra security and then attaching it at the waist to the carabiner to make a functional harness—enough at least to get him to the other side, should anything happen. 

The camerawoman and reporter share a glance but whatever. Let them judge. Paranoid is a better look on him than dashed across the rocks.

After testing the knots, he hooks the carabiner onto the frayed handrails and is on his way.

The bridge moans under his weight and springs like a trampoline with every step, so Winter holds onto the rope white-knuckled. He guides himself along using simple instructions and positive reinforcement.

_Take a step. Breathe in. You’re doing perfect. Breathe out._

The wood grows increasingly slippery as the air turns milky with vapor from the waterfall. It feels less like he’s walking and more like he’s swimming. Water condenses on his skin and streams down his body, taking the last of his makeup along with it.

And after the makeup artist spent so long making it look like he hadn’t just fallen down several flights of stairs, too.

Ah, well. _Que sera sera._

He focuses on the sound of the waterfall and the steady click of his carabiner as he clips and unclips it to the rope.

_Halfway there now. Ignore the swaying. Just like that. You’re unstoppable. Don’t vomit on camera if it kills you. Just a little bit further._

It’s not so bad, really. Winter pauses to look from the waterfall to the view of city lights twinkling by the ocean in the distance, and once he gets over the fact that one poorly-placed step could send him to his doom, it’s really quite beautiful.

Winter’s thinking this when he hears the snap.

The bridge bucks around like it’s deliberately trying to throw him off, and he has just enough time to marvel at the fact that _he’s actually bringing a bridge down this time_ before two more snaps rip through the air and he’s weightess.

The sky and the waterfall and the bridge and the orange spots of flame on either side of him all blur together into nonsense as he drops.

Winter doesn’t let go of the rope in his hand, but it’s his harness that catches him first, pressing all of his body weight into his crotch and leaving him seeing stars.

For a moment, he can’t tell up from down, which is maybe a good thing because the sensation in his lower half is enough to make him want to jump. His ears ring so loud that he can just barely hear the reporter screaming something in the background, but he can’t make out what she’s saying.

Winter musters his strength to try and pull himself up enough to relieve the tension in his harness, but as soon as he puts more pressure on the rope there’s one more _snap_ , and then he’s careening down again.

He’s heard his life is supposed to flash in front of his eyes, but all he sees is a wall of rocks rushing at him.

Scrambling to the nearest plank of wood, Winter hooks one arm through the gap and wraps the other around his head.

He clenches his teeth and braces for impact.

The feeling, he imagines, is akin to a fly being swatted out of the air. It’s like the mountain’s curled up a fist and socked him, and it knocks all of the wind from his lungs. The world is hazy and painful and it’s all he can do to get the oxygen to his brain for a moment before the sharp pains in his shoulder wake him up and he screams like his own personal alarm clock.

Winter fits his feet in the gaps in the wood and climbs up until he’s no longer hanging off his arm. He gasps for breath and lets himself whimper--because fuck it, no one’s around to hear him anyway. 

He casts his gaze around once he’s regained the sense to. The ropes seem to have broken behind him somewhere, but Winter can’t bring himself to look down. He looks up instead. What remains of the bridge is laid out for him like a ladder, and he can see what he thinks is someone’s head peeking over the ledge at the very top. It’s illuminated from the back, so he can’t make out the face, but Winter feels his stomach sink anyway because _fuck_ they could pull him up at any second, and just like that he’ll be disqualified.

Fuck this whole situation. Like he’s going to let a bridge falling stand between him and his independence. 

First thing’s first.

Winter checks his harness. He tightens a couple knots, then reattaches the carabiner to a more secure-looking place further up on the bridge. Gingerly, he slides his arm out from between the boards of wood, biting his lip as it falls limp beside him, then leans into his harness as he uses his good hand to dig around in his backpack. He finds Peep’s pokeball at the very bottom.

As she hits the air she goes off like a siren, flying in circles around his head before he can shush her. 

“Peep, I need you to help me,” he says, and this kind of works because she stops circling, but she’s still shrieking him. Winter really appreciates that she’s worried, but when he looks back up the head is gone and he doesn’t have the time to be sensitive.

“Stop! I need you to _listen_ to me, okay? I have two really important jobs for you.”

For Peep, he’s made a simple system. Chirp once for yes, chirp twice for no.

Peep takes a hint and lets out one chirp.

“The first thing that I need you to do is fly up there,” he motions to the top of the cliff with his head, “and make sure they don’t pull me up--”

She chirps twice, sharp enough that Winter winces against the sound.

“I know, I know, I know, I know. But I need you to go up or else--”

Two chirps, even louder this time. He thinks she might be using echoed voice on him.

“Yeah, I _get_ it, but if you don’t stop them and we get disqualified, then what? Do you think we can still go back home if we lose?” Winter sucks in some air through his teeth. “Look, I can get up on my own. I _promise_ you I can. That’s why, when you finish convincing them not to pull me up--”

This time Winter stops himself, swallowing. He fumbles with his words for a second before asking, “You remember what you did before, after that hit-and-run back in January?”

She chirps once and Winter swears he’s never loved her more.

“I’m gonna need you to do it again. I’m pretty sure it got dislocated.”

There’s also the chance that he’s broken a bone, but he can feel a tingling sensation spreading down his arm and into his neck, so he’s pretty sure he just needs to pop it back into place and he’ll be fine. Relatively speaking, anyway.

Peep hovers in place and clacks her beak unhappily. Winter can’t exactly blame her, either. 

But they don’t have any time to lose and Winter _really_ doesn’t want to leave it to chance, so he gives her a pleading look.

To which she responds with once for yes, hesitating only a couple seconds before dashing up and over the ledge, leaving Winter by himself. 

And now there’s nothing to do but wait. The wood is positively slimy against his skin, but Winter has no choice but to lean against it as he uses his good hand to try and do something about his hair. It’s soaking and his hand is grimy and raw from the rope, so he can’t say whether it does any good or not. 

At one point while he’s waiting, he wiggles his toes to realize that he’s no longer wearing his sandals. They must have fallen down into the abyss. 

They weren’t half-bad looking either, especially considering he’d gotten them for free. Winter offers them a moment of silence.

It feels like ages before he sees Peep fly back down to him, and as soon as she’s in earshot he asks, “Did you talk to them?”

She chirps once.

“Are they gonna let me climb?”

One more chirp, and Winter almost lets himself relax for a second before his arm spasms and stabs an army of hot knives into his shoulder.

“Great job,” he wheezes through the pain. “You’re the best.” 

She gives a nervous coo and Winter nods.

“Yeah, um. Grab my arm, please. You said you remember what to do?”

Peep chirps, flitting over to his side to take his limp arm in her claws. Her wings beat in short, controlled motions as she lifts herself and his arm up slowly, and Winter has to sink his teeth into the nearest length of nasty, old rope as the sensation overwhelms him. It’s grinding and pinching and the vibrations of the bones rubbing against each other feel horrifying. Winter doesn’t try to stop himself from crying as his vision goes completely white, satisfied that the sound is at least being muffled. 

He doesn’t have enough sense of self to tell if his eyes are opened or closed, but somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that his arm is over his head so he rotates his hand and prays for the best.

Then his arm pops into place and everything is right in the world again.

He lets out a sound that’s half-moan-half-sob into the rope, and then spits it out and rests his head against the bridge as he tries to catch his breath. Peep releases his arm and he lets it drop slowly to his side, half-afraid that it’s going to slip out again if he leaves the job to gravity. His shoulder hurts when he rotates it experimentally, pulsing and radiating swollen heat, but it’s not so sore that he can’t use it, he thinks. 

The wind picks up and the bridge creaks ominously again, and _yep_ he’d better start making his way up if he doesn’t want to find himself careening down to the bottom. 

Using his bad arm for stability, he reaches his good one up to grab the next plank of wood and pull himself forward. He climbs at a gradual pace, aided slightly by Peep wrapping her claws around his harness and trying to pull him up faster. Mostly, she just makes the harness ride up his ass, but he appreciates the moral support.

At first, climbing isn’t so hard. He has a laughable amount of adrenaline pumping through his body, and although his shoulder aches it’s easy to ignore. But the longer he climbs, and the more the wood abuses his hands and breaks under his feet, the more tired he gets. The sweat and the vapor mix together to drench him completely. He doesn’t know if it’s the pain or the chill or the fatigue or his nerves, but by the time he reaches the top he’s shaking uncontrollably.

He reaches up one last time, expecting to find the smooth, foot-worn rock, but his hand meets something soft and it takes Winter a moment to register that someone’s caught his hand.

When he looks up, he can see Hau’s face for the first time. He’s got a messy sort of look about him, with his bangs clipped back and his eyebrows taking up half his face, but his expression is kind and his skin is surprisingly good for someone who clearly doesn’t take care of it. 

Hau wraps a hand around his and lifts upwards with considerable strength, and Winter panics for a second, try to pull away until Hau frowns and says, “It’s okay, you won’t get dq’ed if it’s me.”

And Winter hesitates, because he knows that it’s probably not against the rules necessarily, but he’s made it this far on his own and it’d probably look better if he just did it himself anyway--

“I asked grandpa to be sure.”

Fuck it. If he gets disqualified he’ll sue and make the money that way.

Before he can say another word, Hau hefts him up and over the lip of the cliff, dropping him down onto the solid ground, and the first thing Winter does is let himself crumple down onto it. He presses his cheek down against the mountain and revels in the feeling of it under him, not knowing if he should laugh or cry. 

He settles for panting instead, which is made considerably more difficult when Peep lands right by his head and smothers him with a face-full of feathers. She coos and preens his hair, making a mess of it but he’s already at least a disaster and a half so he lets it happen.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he tells her, and she responds in kind by giving him a rough peck in the scalp. He can’t say he doesn’t deserve it.

When he turns his head for a breath of air, he’s rewarded by the sight of Hau standing over him, thick-thighed and muscular, radiating health and wrapped tight in a malo. Winter has to say, he’s generally into older men, but the view from where he’s lying is pretty nice. It’s almost enough to make nearly falling to his death worth it.

Hau reaches his hand out again. “Can you stand?” 

It’s tempting to lie and say that he can’t, but Winter knows the cameras are still rolling and, judging by the angle, he’s probably giving the audience at home a nice live viewing of his own crotch.

So he takes the hand and pulls himself back up on his feet.

He’s barefoot, covered in dirt and grime and sweat and blood, and all he’s got left is his pride. So he ignores the pain and shakes the jitters off, turning to wave at the camera.

He grins like a polished diamond and says, “Sorry I’m late.”


End file.
